The day after his father’s memorial, Mason climbed out of his car and stood on the sidewalk, looking at his childhood home. He could see that Roger had recently mowed and trimmed the lawn. Still, the house looked forlorn with all the shades drawn and no flowers in the window boxes. His gaze drifted to the Blue Door.

The Blue Door was perched on the side of the house, at the height of the second story, with no ladder or stairway to tether it to the ground. Would he ever get an explanation for why the Blue Door was there? After Mason’s parents had brought him to live here, they had sometimes talked about adding a balcony, but every time his father had brought it up, his mother had always said they were too busy or had more important expenses.

Mason looked at the dormant Blue Door and sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. I guess it’s up to me to build that balcony, he thought.

“Mason!” he heard, and turned toward Roger, who came close and shook Mason’s hand, clapping his shoulder. He had a firm grip for an octogenarian.

“It’s good to see you, Mason,” Roger said, handing him a set of house keys. “I stacked some empty cardboard boxes in the garage. Are you sure you don’t want any help going through the house? Packing up fifty years’ worth of things isn’t a job for one man.”

Mason tried to smile at Roger. “Thank you, but I’m just going to straighten up a bit today. When the police came through, they weren’t exactly careful about putting things back where they belong.”

Roger’s face fell, and he nodded. “I still can’t believe he just up and disappeared like that. Your dad was one of the most reliable men I knew.”

Mason cleared his throat. “Yes, he was.” His chest felt tight. He had thought after the memorial that it would get easier to talk about his dad. Will it ever get easier?

Roger shook his head. “I sure do wonder—”

Mason cleared his throat again and backed two steps toward the house. “Thanks again, Roger, for taking care of the place. It really helps.”

“Actually, Mason,” Roger began, then hesitated. “I have something for you. Well, your father left something with me. For you. He made me promise not to give it to anyone but you, and only if it became clear that he wasn’t coming back. After the memorial, I thought you should have it. I probably shouldn’t have waited so long, but—” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a white letter-sized envelope. Mason’s name was written on the front.

Mason’s heart pounded. All these months, waiting for some news of his father, and this letter had been here all along. He took it in both hands. It was heavy; something hard and bulky was inside.

“I’m sorry, Mason,” Roger said, shifting his weight. “Your dad—he was my best friend, and he trusted me to do what he asked. I don’t know anything else about … well.” He waved a hand in a vague gesture. “I hope it helps, whatever it is.”

Mason nodded but couldn’t speak. Roger seemed to understand. He nodded as well and walked away.

Mason trudged up the walk and entered the house, shutting the door behind him. There was a layer of dust on the furniture, and the house smelled musty, though Mason knew most of the mess was upstairs, where the police had searched through his father’s belongings.

Mason stared at the envelope. He found himself moving up the stairs. It felt right to read the letter in his father’s room, where it was easier to believe he’d just gone on vacation and would be returning any day now.

Sitting on the bed, Mason opened the envelope and pulled out a black iron key. Instinctively he looked at the Blue Door with its big brass knob and iron keyhole. He lay the key on the bed and pulled a letter from the envelope. Mason’s stomach lurched as he recognized his dad’s scrawl. Tears pricking, Mason began to read.

Dear Mason,

I’ve gone through the Blue Door. I promised your mother that I wouldn’t. But she’s gone, and even my grandkids are adults now. If I wait any longer, I’ll go to my grave never knowing what’s out there.

Now you’re thinking that I’ve lost my marbles. When we moved into this house after your grandmother died, your mother sat me down in this room by the Blue Door and explained it to me. How the Door came over from the old country with her great-something grandparents. How it moved from house to house with the family. How it always had to appear to be a door to nowhere, or it would stop being the Blue Door and just be a door. How her father had gone through the Door when she was six years old, and how he had never come back.

She made me promise never to go through. But first, she opened it. To prove to me that it was a true story, she said. I believed your mother, or I was trying to. But it gave me quite a shock when she opened the Door. It was night outside our windows, but on the other side of that Door the sun was shining in a sky bluer than your mother’s eyes. There was a meadow full of tall grasses and wildflowers, surrounded by a wood of pines and junipers and scrub oak. The air was full of birds and their music, and golden butterflies the size of my hand floated by. There was a lavender bush growing next to the Door, humming with bees, and I practically got drunk on the scent of it.

I turned to your mother, and tears were streaming down her face. She could see it in me: I wanted to go.

I closed the Door. I tried the knob, but it had locked itself. No one could go through that Door unless they chose to turn the key. I gave the key to your mother. “I’m not going to leave you,” I said. I promised it, and I meant it, and I lived it. I even offered a time or two to build a balcony. She always put me off, either because she harbored a secret hope that her father would walk back through that Door one day, or because she could feel that, deep down, there was a part of me that never stopped dreaming about the other side. I might have convinced her to go with me, if we’d had more time. She was afraid, but if we’d known that car crash was coming … We have a magical Door in our house, but we still can’t predict what day will be our last. Seems a bit unfair, doesn’t it?

Today, I’m going to go through. I think she understands. I hope that you understand as well, Mason. I think—hope—that I’ll come back. But just in case, I’ll leave this letter and the key for you.

I love you and I’m so proud of you, son. Wherever I am, remember that.

Mason read the letter three times, sitting on the bed, with the Blue Door in his peripheral vision. He hefted the key. He stood and stepped over to the Door, inserted the key into the lock and twisted it. There was a satisfying click as the tumblers fell into place. He turned the knob, and the Door opened just a crack.

Mason’s phone buzzed. He hesitated. The odor of lavender floated through the Door on a cool breeze. The hum of bees rang in Mason’s ears like a siren song. He let out a gasp that was almost a laugh. There really was another world, right there on the other side of the Door.

Just a few steps, he thought. A few minutes. I’ll text Abby that I’ll be late.

Leaving one hand on the knob, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. There was a text from Abby:

Hey, how is the cleaning up going? Sorry I couldn’t help this time but it’s a good thing I stayed to fix dinner. Tess just texted that she’s bringing the boyfriend. Think you’ll be here for it?

He read the text a couple of times before the meaning sunk in. Wife, kids, family dinner. Tess will want me there. Closing his eyes, he filled his lungs with lavender-spiked air before shutting the Door. He leaned his forehead against it. Images of his father flashed through his mind: ball games, band concerts, video game afternoons and overnight campouts, graduations and weddings and funerals.

“Goodbye, Dad,” Mason whispered. “I love you, too.”

Mason slipped the key into his pocket and texted his wife:

Have I got a story for you.

I’ll be home in 20 minutes.